


thankful

by enamuko



Series: FE Rarepair Week 2k19 [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/F, Fluff, also a bunch of rarepairs mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 09:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20863907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enamuko/pseuds/enamuko
Summary: There are many things Ingrid is thankful for. Dorothea is high on the list. The fact that she only has to endure trying to put on makeup perhaps once or twice a year is also very high.





	thankful

**Author's Note:**

> Some good, good paralogue girlfriends to continue the trend... Once again takes place in an AU where the war never happens cuz I Am A Wuss.........  
Written for Fire Emblem Rarepair Week! Prompt is "Thankful".  
(This is the last prompt that I have fully complete in advance of the day so like... Don't expect the last three to be totally on schedule lmao.)

Ingrid isn’t one for big events— at least, not as a spectator. She’s more than used to standing stoically in a line holding her lance and maintaining a perfectly stoic expression while some sort of Event goes on  _ around _ her, but not  _ this _ .

For one thing, she’s never been to Enbarr before. It is a beautiful city, she cannot deny that— but it still feels odd to her, being in the Adrestian capital, knowing how close war between the Empire and the Kingdom was during her school days, avoided only by the timely intervention of a single woman who had been more or less just… Found in the woods.

Not that she’s complaining, of course.

For another, Ingrid is no more used to fancy dress now than she was during her academy days, and like Dorothea had helpfully told her back then, she continues to be a truly hopeless cause. She remembers hiding from Mercedes and Annette and the torment of their makeup brushes and hair care products just before the ball.

They would be proud of her now, she thinks, though she’s glad they’re not around to see her like this, lest it give them ideas. She’s at least made a good effort.  _ How _ good, she cannot say— she has nothing to compare it to except that night at the ball, and she’d done very little of the work herself and spent most of her time thinking about how uncomfortable she was and how much she would like to leave.

Now, she has been left to her own devices, and she hopes she’s done a good enough job. The dress, at least, had been provided for her— much easier than trying to navigate the world of fashion on her own, not to mention the costs.

When she had arrived in Enbarr, it had been waiting for her at her lodgings, with a note saying ‘Don’t forget, if you don’t dress for the occasion, no one will take you seriously!’

It had, at least, been motivation enough to get her out of her comfort zone…

So, the dress is beautiful. Her makeup and hair, she is less certain of. Of course, her hair being so much shorter now than it was at the Academy, there is little she can do about it except make sure it is clean and brushed and neatly presentable, with perhaps an accessory or two, like the jewelled hair clips she sports now that had been gifts from Sylvain for her birthday. The makeup…

Well, she tried her best. At least she had abided by the age-old idea of ‘less is more’...

The audience of an opera house does not trend towards being well-lit, either, which works in her favour.

When she arrives at the opera house, she does not recognize anyone else mingling about before the show begins, socializing and being there to be seen before the event proper. Perhaps it is merely coincidence, as she knows a number of her friends and acquaintances frequent these performances; perhaps she has simply not spotted them in the crowd, which is large and difficult to pick out individual faces from, even for someone who is quite perceptive.

Or, perhaps, she is the only one who has received a special invitation… A thought which forces her to take a deep drink of the wine she was handed upon entering the grand foyer, if only so she can hide her blushing face in the glass.

Soon a group of well-dressed ushers arrive to invite the guests to take their seats for the show, which Ingrid is grateful for because she won’t have to awkwardly stand to the side and make it so blatantly obvious she doesn’t belong there.

(Not to mention that she feels quite special when she’s personally guided to her seat by an usher. Yes, she’s a noblewoman— but the treatment she receives has nothing to do with her status, which makes it even more special.)

She is given the best seat in the house; a balcony seat, with an unbroken view of the stage, and pleasant seat neighbors with no desire to make flaunting small talk with her. She doesn’t frequent the opera like many of her friends, but she can truly appreciate the effort that’s gone into making it a special occasion for her.

It makes her ordeal with makeup seem more than worth it, at least.

Ingrid is not a lover of the opera. She can appreciate the artistry, of course. The singing, the dancing— it  _ is _ beautiful, and something she could never even  _ hope _ to do, no matter that she’s not  _ terrible _ at either of those things (better at dancing than singing, though, simply because the skills from combat translate at least moderately better). The stories are beautiful, too, although most of them seem to repeat themselves a bit…

Right now, though? She couldn’t care less about the story.

All she cares about is seeing Dorothea radiant on stage…

The plot is lost on her, in fact. From the moment Dorothea stepped out onto the stage, she’s been utterly transfixed. She’s seen her perform, of course… she remembers the exact occasion when Dorothea invited her to see her perform in an opera being held in the Garreg Mach cathedral, because she thinks about it often, and wonders how something like that ever led her to end up where she is now… But to see her properly on the stage, being admired by so many, exactly as she deserves? Is a particular sort of stunning.

Ingrid sits in silent awe through the entire performance, and when it comes to its end, she is left sitting there blinking away the enraptured haze she has fallen into. It’s only when an usher comes to take her backstage that she can manage to come back to reality…

She’s guided backstage, and a few stagehands and some of the other performers whisper as she pass by; some even giggle behind their hands, making Ingrid feel self-conscious until she realizes that these are Dorothea’s co-workers, at which point she feels embarrassed instead.

The usher knocks on the door for her, and from inside, she hears a melodic ‘come in’ that tells her Dorothea is expecting her.

(Of course she’s expecting her; she’s the one who  _ invited _ her, she’s the one who sent an usher to bring her back to her dressing room, why  _ wouldn’t _ she be expecting her? And yet it still sends a shiver up her spine, especially with the lilt to Dorothea’s voice…)

The usher goes on his way to carry on with whatever his duties are after a show has been completed, and Ingrid opens the door to allow herself inside, then closes it softly behind her.

Dorothea is sitting at her vanity, focusing on the mirror as she carefully removes pin after pin from her elaborate hairdo. She doesn’t even spare Ingrid a glance as she continues her meticulous work, which Ingrid watches with rapt attention, not caring at all about being ignored if it means she can watch her doing such interesting, delicate work…

Only when the final hair pin is removed does she turn to Ingrid with a bright, warm smile that makes her insides turn to jelly.

“Why, look at you, Miss Ingrid,” Dorothea says, fluttering her eyelashes at her. “Certainly quite the improvement from the girl at Garreg Mach who didn’t even know the difference between mascara and eyeliner.”

She isn’t actually wearing either of those, but she doesn’t think that’s important for her to mention at the moment.

“You’re the one to thank,” she says. “The dress is carrying a lot of the weight. You really didn’t have to do that for me, you know…”

“Of course I did. I could hardly have my  _ very special guest _ showing up in her armour… Or, worse,  _ furs _ .”

Ingrid wants to ask what exactly is wrong with furs, but considering Enbarr isn’t exactly a frozen tundra like Fhirdiad is, and she doesn’t really have anything designed with warmer climates in mind, so she supposes she has a point.

At least the dress she chose for her is not nearly as revealing as Dorothea personally wears…

“So? What did you think?” Dorothea turns on her stool so she’s facing Ingrid, hands in her lap and eyes all but sparkling. “Be honest, now. I can handle it.”

Even if she  _ did _ have something negative to say about her performance, Ingrid would have never been able to say it with the way Dorothea is looking at her like  _ that. _

“Honest? Dorothea, you were amazing. Captivating. Beautiful…”

She blushes at the last one, but would have been happy to continue listing adjectives endlessly if Dorothea didn’t jump in with,

“Oh, you flatterer. Did you come all this way just to ply me with such sweet words?” The way Dorothea’s lips twitch into a smirk tell her she’s joking, even if she couldn’t have figured that out herself. And still it makes Ingrid blush. “I’ll forgive you, though. And I didn’t say to stop.”

Dorothea winks at her, and Ingrid laughs.

“Oh, Dorothea… Never change.”

She means it, too. Ingrid wants Dorothea to stay exactly the way she is right now— happy, healthy, vibrant, and adored.

The woman who sits next to her on the setee is so different from the girl she remembers at school, and yet exactly the same. Dorothea still lights up every room she walks into, still manages to make you feel completely at ease and yet totally out of your element at every turn— or maybe that’s just Ingrid, but still. But she seems so much…  _ Lighter _ now. Free from the burden of courtship and the weight of an impending conflict on her shoulders, no longer honing her magic on enemies on the battlefield…

_ This _ is the sort of life that Dorothea deserves.

For not the first time, but for the first time while she’s sitting on Dorothea’s couch with yet another glass of wine that’s been pressed upon her and watching raptly as Dorothea gossips about her co-workers, Ingrid is thankful for Professor Byleth. For the way she averted what Ingrid knows would have been a costly and brutal war. Not only because of the lives she’s sure she saved— her close friends and family included— but because it’s spared Dorothea the horrors of it.

That’s probably incredibly selfish of her. But as long as the thought stays inside her head, she’s willing to allow herself that bit of selfishness.

“And what about you, Ingrid?” Dorothea asks, and Ingrid practically startles in her seat as she promptly realizes that she hasn’t been absorbing most of what Dorothea has been saying and feels suddenly guilty. (Though, considering she caught a lot of snippets of talk about things like trysts and affairs, she’s not sure she really  _ wants  _ to know what Dorothea was talking about…) Thankfully, Dorothea continues with, “What have  _ you _ been up to lately?”

“Nothing exciting,” she answers, and when Dorothea gives her a hard look, she continues with, “I’m serious, Dorothea. Things have been the same as ever in Fhirdiad. Routine. Calm, even.”

For a certain definition of calm, she supposes. Things are still hectic. Dimitri is uncertain about many things, and needs a great deal of guidance, which she tries to provide but despite being so much closer than they were during their school days she still feels there is a gap between their stations that the bridge they have been building has not completely cleared…

That, and the fact that his other primary advisors are Dedue, Sylvain, and Felix, and the only one she can rely on to give consistently good advice is Dedue, so she half expects that her little trip to Enbarr will end with her coming back to a smoking crater in the ground where Fhirdiad used to be...

But ever since she’d given up her claim to House Galatea, things had been easier. She doesn’t have to worry about suitors and dowries and Crests… She can focus on being a knight and aiding Dimitri and just living her life. And that’s exactly what she’s been doing.

“And how is everyone in your neck of the woods?” Dorothea asks, leaning her head into her hand and staring at Ingrid with a glimmer in her eyes. She’s further into her glass of wine than Ingrid is (although it is technically Ingrid’s second), which might account for the light dusting of red on her cheeks, but the slump of her body and the way her head lolls to the side is almost certainly just from how tired she must be after her performance. She almost wants to tell her to get some rest and she’ll see her tomorrow, but…

Another one of her little selfish moments that she’ll just keep to herself, she supposes.

“Everyone is doing well,” she says. “Or, I assume most of them are. I haven’t heard from Ashe in some time…”

“Caspar wrote to me just the other day. Sounds like they’re both doing pretty well.”

“Oh! Well, that’s good.” Ingrid is baffled by the idea that Caspar would take time from their adventures to write letters but Ashe wouldn’t, but as long as they’re having a good time, she won’t question it… She’s certainly glad for Ashe, to get the chance to get out and explore the world with someone he loves…

“Hm… Aside from that, everyone is doing well… Though I have to say, visiting House Gautier has become even more a chore than it ever was…”

“Oh, I can only  _ imagine _ ,” Dorothea says, scrunching up her face like she’s just smelled something terrible. “Who would have ever thought the two biggest womanizers of Garreg Mach would end up together? Good for them, though, for learning a little self-awareness.”

Ingrid isn’t sure she would put Sylvain and Lorenz in strictly the same category of flirt, but what she and Dorothea can agree on is that they’re good for each other. For different reasons, Ingrid knows, but she can hardly blame her… After all, Ingrid has had her entire life to adjust to Sylvain, and despite Lorenz’ pretentiousness the skill carries. Dorothea has not had the same time and energy to devote to developing such a skill.

“Felix is… Well, Felix.” Ingrid sighs. She loves her friends; yet, it really speaks volumes that she can say such a thing and it will convey everything she needs to say about them. “He’s grumpy as ever. Grumpier, maybe, since half the time all he does is complain about Linhardt complaining about the cold. But he’s also happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.”

“Mercedes is doing well, I hear.”

“You would know better than I do. It seems like Hubert is in Fhirdiad to visit her almost more often than he’s here in Enbarr.”

“I wouldn’t let him hear you say that.”

“I don’t plan to. But it does make me wonder if Mercedes won’t just follow him back here at some point. She hardly has any ties to the Kingdom aside from us, and considering how often everyone travels back and forth…”

They fall into easy conversation about friends and former classmates, leaving behind heavier talks of politics, though at least in Faerghus such things have also been relatively peaceful. The bottle of wine drains steadily, though Ingrid loses track of it among the conversation, which she assumes is how they end up lying on the setee with Dorothea curled comfortably against her, head tucked into her shoulder.

“I’m so glad you came tonight, Ingrid,” she says, suddenly and earnestly, in a way that catches Ingrid off guard and makes her blush, though she’s certain it gets lost in the flush of the wine. “I know fancy events aren’t really your style. Especially not the whole… Dressing up part.”

“I like the opera,” Ingrid says almost defensively. “And I don’t mind dressing up, though I can’t say I really know what I’m doing. It’s… Easier when I know it’s for you, rather than for some nameless suitor who only wants me for my Crest, just so my family doesn’t end up starving to death.”

“Oh, Ingrid…” Dorothea sighs and nuzzles in against her neck in a way that sends a wave of heat through Ingrid’s body. “It’s like you don’t even realize how enticing the things you’re saying are!”

“Careful, Dorothea; you may start to sound like Sylvain.” Of course, she can’t stop from smiling when she says it, which may ruin the effect somewhat. Dorothea still does her the honour of gasping dramatically.

“You take that back!”

She reaches up to grasp Ingrid’s face in her hands, nearly forgetting that she’s holding a glass of wine until Ingrid takes it from her and sets both wine glasses on the small table just behind her head. While she does that, Dorothea takes enjoyment in squashing her cheeks together, then stretching them out. To what end, Ingrid has no idea, but she seems to be having fun…

When she tires of that, she instead leaves her hands cupping Ingrid’s face and simply stares at her. It makes Ingrid feel self-conscious, moreso even than the makeup and the dress and every attempt she’s made at dressing up for the night.

“You know, Ingrid,” Dorothea says with a sigh, turning her face like she’s examining a piece of artwork. “I know I used to say it surprised me that you didn’t know anything about makeup, and not to disparage the excellent work you’ve done tonight, but I’ve changed my mind; you look better without it.”

“Oh? I never thought I’d hear you say something like that,” Ingrid says, glossing over the fact that she knows Dorothea is just flattering her when she calls her work ‘excellent’. Passable, perhaps… “Why the change of heart?”

“I know you don’t like ‘girly’ things, mostly,” she explains, releasing Ingrid’s face and snuggling in against her.

“I don’t  _ dislike _ ‘girly’ things,” Ingrid says, again somewhat defensively, although she’s not quite as adamant about it this time, since it’s closer to the truth. “I simply never thought they would be of much use to me for anything other than making myself appealing to suitors whose attention I didn’t want in the first place. But…”

“But…?”

“Well…” Ingrid clears her throat, like that will distract Dorothea from how red she’s turning, as thought Dorothea isn’t directly in her face to begin with. “I… Like when you do those things. Back at the Academy… I hated when Mercedes and Annette tried to get me dressed up and covered in makeup, but I didn’t hate when you did it, because I enjoyed seeing you so excited at the prospect of teaching me. And, more than that, seeing you enjoying those things yourself, even thought I knew you were doing it to attract men…”

She doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, but since Dorothea’s hand is on her cheek again, she doesn’t suppose it’s really important.

“I didn’t do it  _ just _ to seduce men,” Dorothea says, gently chiding her, and winking at her to boot. “I also did it to seduce handsome lady knights. And maybe a little bit because I found it fun. But mostly to seduce handsome ladies who look oh so dashing on the back of a pegasus.”

“Dorothea…!” Ingrid can’t pretend the colour in her face is entirely due to the wine anymore, especially when she can feel it creeping up her neck to her ears. “That’s… A bit much, don’t you think…?”

She can’t even bring herself to make another joke about her sounding like Sylvain, or something. She’s too caught off guard by how open and earnest Dorothea was with that comment. She’s always been forward, but… Ingrid isn’t certain she’ll ever completely be used to it.

She isn’t certain she ever  _ wants _ to be. Though she’s embarrassed, she would be more than happy to spend the rest of her days being caught off guard by Dorothea and her relentless, honest compliments.

“I think it’s exactly enough,” Dorothea replies, reaching up to tap her long nail against Ingrid’s upper lip. “It’s only what you deserve, after all. Nothing but the best for my Ingrid.”

She remembers that old chestnut, from their school days. Back then, it had made her feel strange for reasons she didn’t understand. Now she understands them fully, after helping her friends through their own journeys of self-discovery, and a great deal of Sylvain’s teasing despite him being every bit as bad as her.

Now, while it does still fluster her, it also makes her feel warm inside to hear Dorothea call her hers. Of course, in a different context, she might have simply thought it was a simple display of platonic affection…

It’s hard to see it that way when they’re lying together on Dorothea’s couch, faces inches apart, after Ingrid travelled across the continent and gussied herself up to watch her sing as if only for her in one of the most sappy, romantic operas she’s ever seen (and that’s saying something, considering the plot of most operas).

There are so many things Ingrid is thankful for, in this time and place. She is thankful that their countries never went to war, that the two of them can exist peacefully here like this. She is thankful that she is not burdened by the weight of her birthright’s expectations, and can instead pursue the life she truly desires.

And, as Dorothea snuggles against her chest, looking like she’s going to fall asleep, she is thankful for her.

“Dorothea,” she says softly. “If you’re going to fall asleep, maybe we should get you home. You’ve had a long day…”

“Mm… Will you be there?” Dorothea asks, and her voice is so heavy between the wine and how tired she is that Ingrid can’t even be certain whether she’s teasing or not.

“Of course,” she replies, just in case she’s serious— and even if she’s not, it’s something she wants to remind her of anyway.

She’s come all this way and dressed up just for her, after all.

“I love you, Dorothea,” she says, suddenly, without any preamble, because it feels right to say. Dorothea chuckles against her.

“I love you too, Ingrid. Even if you are hopeless at doing makeup.”

And finally, more than anything, she is thankful for that.


End file.
